


Come On, Oblivion

by gothpandaotaku



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Hallucinates, Dean Has Issues, Dean Has Nightmares, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Depressed Sam, Depression, Episode: s04e22 Lucifer Rising, Hallucifer, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Episode s05e01, Sam Hallucinates, Sam Has Self-Worth Issues, Sam Hates Himself, Sam has Nightmares, Season/Series 05, Suicidal Sam, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6225181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gothpandaotaku/pseuds/gothpandaotaku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's left him, and well... Sam has nothing but Oblivion to look forward to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sam

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah. This is depressing. Be warned, there are many suicide attempts and they're mildly graphic.

 

 _In this farewell_  
_There's no blood, there's no alibi_  
_'Cause I've drawn regret_  
_From the truth of a thousand lies_  
_So let mercy come and wash away_  
_What I've done_

 _I'll face myself to cross out what I've become_  
_Erase myself_  
_And let go of what I've done_

 _Put to rest what you thought of me_  
_While I clean this slate_  
_With the hands of uncertainty_  
_So let mercy come and wash away_  
_What I've done_

 _I'll face myself to cross out what I've become_  
_Erase myself_  
_And let go of what I've done_

_-“What I’ve Done” Linkin Park_

 

It was quiet. The only sound in the shitty closet-size motel room was the thrumming and wheezing of the ancient heater in the corner.

Sam hated it.

For days now silence had been Sam’s only company. Dean spent every waking moment he could either at the bar or fruitlessly searching for a lead on the whereabouts of God; generally just trying to get as far away from Sam as possible.

Sam couldn’t blame him. He _wished_ he could get away from himself. Even he didn’t want to look at himself in the mirror.

Five hours ago by now Dean had left for the nearest dive bar without sparing a glance or a word at Sam. After the door slammed behind him, cheap doorframe rattling in its hinges with the force of it, Sam curled up on the bed furthest from the door. Not knowing what else to do. He lay there, for an indeterminable amount of time. The sky grew dark and then black, and he figured Dean wasn’t coming back for the night. _Maybe not ever,_ a small voice in the back of his mind whispered.

Every wrong choice he made that led them to where they are now, Lucifer topside and the whole fucking world doomed and Dean hating his guts, flooded his mind. If only he’d listened to his brother. If only he’d killed Ruby when he had the chance. _If only he’d never been born_.

The heater gave one last pathetic wheeze before puffing out its last burst of warm air and dying. Almost immediately, the temperature in the room began to plummet. Sam couldn’t bring himself to care. He curled up into a tighter ball for warmth but didn’t even have the energy to crawl under the covers. Maybe he’d do the world a favor and freeze to death.

* * *

 

One week later and Sam was alone again. One week of silences so tense they made Sam feel like he was choking. One week of Dean refusing to look at him, and when he did, it was with thinly veiled disgust in his eyes. One week of Sam slowly drowning in those looks and those silences, too tired to even attempt to fight back.

All it took was one week and Dean had left him.

Sam was in another nameless shitty motel room in a nameless town in a nameless state in a string of nameless shitty motel rooms in nameless towns in nameless states. His whole _life_ was a shitty motel room.

But this time, he was _alone_. For the first time in his life, he was well and truly alone for good. Dean wanted nothing to do with him. When Dean had finally sat him down and told him to “pick a hemisphere,” a part of Sam had wanted to kick and scream and beg. Beg for a forgiveness that he knew he didn’t deserve, but he _needed_ anyway. He’d get down on his knees if he had to. But he saw the determination in Dean’s eyes, saw the finality in Dean’s decision, and couldn’t bring himself to voice how sorry he really was.

Dean was the only thing in his life that had ever brought him any comfort, the only bright spot and source of happiness in his shitty motel room of a life. He didn’t _deserve_ any form of comfort, let alone happiness, not after what he’d done.

So Sam did what Dean asked and left; what was left of him dying with each and every step he took away from his brother.

After driving in a stolen piece of crap for twelve hours straight Sam stopped at the first motel advertising vacancies, not even able to see straight at that point. He collapsed on the bed in his room without bothering to grab his bags from the trunk, again curling up in a ball. Only then did he let himself cry for the first time since _it_ happened.

That night he dreamt of Lucifer for the first time.

* * *

 

In a sick way, it all made sense. Yellow Eyes _‘choosing’_ him, the demon blood, never fitting in… it was all because he was Lucifer’s vessel. He was never meant for the light or to be normal, or _good_. He was meant to house the Devil himself. God, Dean was _right_ to get away when he did.

Every night he would come to Sam in his dreams, disguised as John, Mary, or Jess. Or worst of all, Dean. When he was _“Dean,”_ the dreams would start out just like any of his other dreams starring his brother. _“Dean”_ would smile at him, that same knowing smile that made Sam’s heart skip a beat and want to wipe it off his face at the same time. He would hold Sam, let Sam burrow in close so his head was resting on Dean’s shoulder and their bodies aligned. They’d kiss, and Sam was flying. And then he’d try to seduce Sam to say “one, tiny little word.”

Yes.

And Sam… Sam _almost_ would. One more touch, one more kiss, and he didn’t know what would happen. He _knew_ it wasn’t real, but god, he could _taste_ Dean’s lips…

Which is why he had to do this. One more dream and he might crumble. If he crumbled, the world ended. So the best option was simply taking himself out of the equation. Lucifer had said he’d just bring Sam back. Well, he’d just have to test that theory.

Sam rolled the barrel of the gun between his fingers nervously. His cellphone sat on the edge of the bed beside him, he reached for it before hesitantly pulling his hand back before he could grasp it. He wanted, more than anything, to hear Dean’s voice just one last time. Maybe so he could apologize and beg for Dean’s forgiveness, but really just to hear Dean’s voice again. But he knew Dean wouldn’t want that. Dean couldn’t even stand to be in the same room with him anymore. Dean didn’t _want_ him anymore.

_You’re one of the filthy things we hunt._

_Pick a hemisphere._

Resolve strengthened, Sam put the gun to his head. It was the Devil after all. The Devil lied. Maybe he wouldn’t bring Sam back after all.

A deep breath.

Sam pulled the trigger.

 _Blissful nothingness_.

* * *

 

Sam was going insane. Attempting to function on two hours of sleep a night will do that pretty fast, he learned. But he didn’t know what to do. Ever since his initial attempt to escape his fate as Lucifer’s vessel, Lucifer had escalated his attempts to get Sam to say yes. Every night, every day, every dream, he was there whispering in Sam’s ear. Sometimes he swore he heard Lucifer’s voice in the middle of the day, though that could have been the sleep deprivation.

The only way he got any sleep these days was at the bottom of a bottle of pills or the barrel of his gun. He doubted you could technically call death _sleep_ , but it was the only peace he got. Through his many ‘experiments’ he’d found that it generally took 2-3 hours for him to come back. Longer if he used _messier_ methods.

Tonight was a particularly bad night. Of course, every night was a bad night, but tonight especially. Weeks without sleep were taking their toll and most of the time Sam didn’t have the energy to get out of the lumpy motel bed. The motel had his credit card on file, so it was fine. And if he starved to death, he’d get a nice ‘nap’ out of it, a win-win.

His phone had rang for the first time in weeks. The sudden piercing trill had startled him something fierce, but jumping out of bed and scrambling to find the damn thing had been the most alive he’d felt in weeks. _What if it was It could Dean? be Dean. It might be Dean._ The only reason he’d bothered to keep his phone charged was just in case he didn’t miss a call from Dean.

It was the cell phone company notifying him his bill hadn’t been paid.

A small, shaky bubble of laughter escaped from Sam’s lips. Another, and then another. It sounded hysterical even to his ears, but he just couldn’t stop it. _Of course_ it wasn’t Dean! Why would it be? Dean _hated_ him now. How could he be so stupid? To think that Dean could ever want him again. _Poor, stupid Sammy. So. Stupid. Stupid stupid stupid._

Whole body shaking, Sam picked up his duffel and dug through it, throwing everything out onto the floor until he reached the bottom. Hysterical laughter long turned to sobs, Sam pulled out Dean’s old AC/DC shirt with trembling hands. He held it close, burying his face in the familiar scent of his brother, faded as it was. Before he’d left for Stanford he’d swiped it from Dean’s duffel. Maybe it was just his imagination, but to him it still smelt of sweat, whiskey, and Old Spice. _Dean._

Sam crawled back onto the bed, shirt clutched in hand. After grabbing his gun off the edge of the bed, he made himself comfortable, or as comfortable as one could get on a motel bed. Surrounded by the scent of Dean, he finally allowed himself to relax, letting all the tension out in one deep breath. It would all be over soon, at least for a little while.

Normally he settled for a bottle of sleeping pills to help him ‘sleep,’ but tonight he just couldn’t wait for them to take effect. He needed out, _now_. Another second in this shitty motel room in this shitty reality was the worst torture he could imagine.

He pulled a scratchy pillow over his head (to muffle the sound, Sam _did_ learn from his mistakes, see?), aimed the gun at his head… and pulled the trigger.

Dean found him like that four hours later.


	2. Dean

Dean’s little trip to the future left him with a bad taste in his mouth. It was yet another instance of the feathered assholes trying to manipulate him into playing their game, but they did get one thing right: he needed to get to Sam.

It had felt like the right thing to do at the time, but now Dean could see that he’d been wrong. They weren’t stronger apart, they were stronger _together_. Maybe not by much and maybe it wouldn’t make a damn of a difference in this Heaven on Hell war, but he didn’t want to fight it if Sam wasn’t by his side. _Nothing_ felt right if Sammy wasn’t by his side.

He figured he’d call Sam, Sam would apologize again and Dean would make a big deal about forgiving him, and they’d be on their merry way to figuring out how to ice the Devil. Piece of cake.

Only problem was, Sam wasn’t answering his damn phone. Dean called, and called, and called again but it kept going straight to voicemail. He lost count of how many angry voicemails he left. Finally he got tired of waiting and traced Sam’s phone to a small town in Virginia, just a couple hours drive away. Sam didn’t want to talk him, fine. He’d give Sam a little surprise and they’d have a chat about _answering your goddamn phone_ and being an ungrateful little shit.

Dean made the drive in record time. Anger burned hot and heavy in his gut, growing with every mile he drove. Here he was being the bigger fucking person, _forgiving_ Sam for starting the fucking _apocalypse_ , and Sam couldn’t even take his calls? Fuck that. He was going to give Sam a piece of his mind. In the back of his mind, a tiny niggle of fear whispered in his ear, but he quickly dismissed it.

The motel was such a shitty fucking place that when Dean got there, there was no one behind the desk. Literally no one in sight. With a shrug, Dean slipped behind the desk and found Sam’s alias and room number in less than a minute.

He banged on Sam’s door, getting irritated again when Sam didn’t immediately answer. “Sam, it’s me, open the fucking door.” Silence. He pounded on the door a few more times, not caring that he was probably making a scene, not that there was anyone around to see it. “SAM, OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR!”

Resisting the urge to make a hell of a statement by breaking the door down, Dean picked the pathetic lock in no time at all. It wouldn’t even stop a child. “Howdy, Sam,” Dean called, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

It sounds impossible, but at first, it wasn’t immediately obvious that anything was wrong. The bed was pushed into the darkest corner of the room, as far away from the door as possible and almost around a corner, so his immediate impression was he was alone in the room.

Then he rounded the small corner.

Saw the bed.

And his world fell apart.

 Not shattering into millions of pieces, never to be whole again, but imploding until there was nothing left but the bed in front of him in a shitty motel room in Virginia—his little brother lying there with a bloody pillow smothering his face and a gun in his hand.

It took a while for Dean’s brain to comprehend the image his eyes were seeing. It felt like his brain didn’t _want_ to understand. Because it couldn’t be real. His mind must be playing tricks on him or something, showing him his worst nightmares; maybe he stepped into some kind of supernatural trap—it _couldn’t_ be real because that would mean Sam was— _Sam was-_

“Sam?” Dean choked out, barely managing it with the panic threatening to take over. “Come on Sam, quit playing. Wake up.”

He was met with nothing but haunting silence. “Wake up!” Dean barked, stalking over to the bed and throwing the pillow off of Sam, swallowing back the bile at the sight of one of his old shirts balled up in Sam’s other hand, blood splatter coating the front. “Wake up, wake up, you don’t get to fucking do this to me, not you Sammy, not you, wake up, wake up, wake the fuck up.” He shook Sam’s— _Sam, it’s still Sam_ —and Sam was cold and turning stiff, just like back then-

Confronted with reality, Sam’s cool pale skin and the blood in his hair and _the fucking hole in his head_ Dean’s chest constricted painfully. His breaths came in short sharp gasps and he couldn’t breathe, wasn’t getting any air. He looked up at Sam and saw Sam’s big beautiful brains _(Sam was so smart, had always been smarter than Dean)_ splattered on the wall and he looked down and his hands—his hands were covered in his baby brother’s blood.

Everything he’d eaten for what felt like the past week came back up as Dean leaned over the edge of the bed and purged.  

When he was done he couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t breathe at all. His lungs were rejecting any oxygen they tried to take in. He curled up next to Sammy and wished for Death to take him as well.

* * *

 

_It can see you through these dark days,_   
_Though they seem to darken as I go._   
_Our love will see us through these dark, dark days sister,_   
_'Til it lights the way back home._   
_Sister, hide our love away._   
  
_It can turn the whole world upside down,_   
_Shake it 'til the sky falls to the ground._   
_We don't have to reap the fear they sow,_   
_Friends, as long as we hide our love away,_   
_In the good they'll never know._   
_-"Dark Days" by Punch Brothers_


	3. Changes

Sam was floating in nothingness. A peaceful, blissful nothingness, wrapped around him like the most comfortable blanket imaginable. It was dark and warm and he never wanted to leave. The passage of time was irreverent, and somehow he knew there was nothing for him _out there._ There was only nothingness.

Until he was ripped out of his nothingness and thrust back into the real world against his will, kicking and screaming.

When he was forced back into his body for a moment it felt like he was still underwater. He was paralyzed and couldn’t even open his eyes. Slowly, as his senses returned, he got the sense that he wasn’t alone. A voice, distant and murky and muffled, seemed to be whispering something to him. Pressure on his left side, like a weight… someone was definitely right next to him.

Staticky at first, bit by bit Sam was able to make out some of what was being said to him.

“-aam—my, my ba—oy—no no no—my—ake up co—my-”

Like being struck by lightning, Sam’s heart took off, practically jumping out of his chest. His eyes shot open and he gasped in much needed air by the lungful. A steady sobbing emanated from beside him and when his body finally listened to him he turned his head to see who was making it. It sounded almost animalistic, a guttural whining. He didn’t know how or why, but the sound broke some long-lost piece of Sam’s heart he’d previously thought dead and buried.

_Dean._

Dean was beside him. Clinging to him, his arms wrapped around Sam’s waist and his face buried in Sam’s neck, sobbing quietly. Tremors wracked Dean’s body so fierce Sam felt himself trembling. Every now and then a whine would escape from Dean.

Sam was convinced he must still be dead. Or dreaming, or _something_. That would be the only logical explanation for Dean’s sudden appearance. _Dean didn’t want you anymore,_ Sam reminded himself.

“Sammy, wake up, you gotta wake up so I can tell you how sorry I am. You can’t leave me, can’t leave me, can’t leave me,” Dean croaked out, voice rough and raspy like it had been overused. He was so out of he didn’t seem to realize that Sam _was_ awake and staring at him. And then he let out another one of those whines that _hurt_ something deep in Sam’s soul and he knew he couldn’t stay quiet any longer. He still wasn’t sure if this was real or not, but for some reason Dean was in pain, and no way Sam would just stand by while his brother hurt.

“D-Dean?” Sam ventured, sitting up a little.

The response was immediate. Dean’s eyes flew open and stared at him with his wide-eyed bloodshot gaze, a few tears still falling down his pale face. He sucked in a shaky breath and oh god, he wasn’t saying anything, why wasn’t he saying anything? Was he _disappointed_ Sam had come back? Shit shit shit he’d let Dean down again, how could he be so stupid?

“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered. “I’m sorry, I’ll try again, okay? Maybe if I keep trying, _he’ll_ get tired of bringing me back. I’ll keep trying, I’m sorry, just please don’t hate me, I’m sorry.” The words feel out of Sam in a breathy jumble, not able to stop himself from practically begging. But he _needed_ Dean to understand just how truly sorry he was. Maybe if Dean understood, he wouldn’t leave him again.

Dean swallowed heavily, still looking at Sam with red eyes as wide as saucers. “You’re—you’re _sorry_?”

“So sorry-”

“—that you came back?”

“I’ll keep trying okay, I promise-”

“NO!” Dean barked. “No, God, Sammy, _no_.” Then he pulled Sam into his arms and clung to him once more; Sam actually found it hard to breathe with how tight Dean was holding him. “ _I’m_ sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I need you, Baby Boy. Don’t leave me. Not you. _Don’t leave me_.”

The sobbing starts back up in earnest and Sam doesn’t know what to do. If he should believe his pathetic fantasy of Dean loving him again has actually somehow come true, or if he should take it as the temporary reprieve it is. Either way, he clings back, just as tight, and lets himself fall apart.

* * *

 

Things are… they’re different now. _They_ are different.

For the time being they’re staying at Bobby’s. After Sam fell asleep in Dean’s arms (and nearly giving Dean a heart attack in the process when he felt Sam’s body go limp) he called Bobby up and gave him a sanitized version of events.

 Dean merely told Bobby, “Sam… ain’t doin’ so good,” but he’s pretty sure Bobby understood somehow. Old man was a psychic or something.

Bobby was real quiet on the phone. After several long moments of silence, he finally said in a low voice, “You bring him here. We’ll get him right, just you see. And you too, son. It’s gonna be okay.” And for what felt like the millionth time that day, Dean broke down into tears, making him think he was going to grow a vagina any minute.

They didn’t split up anymore. _At all._ Dean wouldn’t let Sam out of his sight for anything. Dean does a liquor run, Sam tags along. Sam has to go to the bathroom, means Dean suddenly does too. Sam had literally and figuratively become Dean’s shadow. They even shared the same bed now, nevermind there was a perfectly good one two feet away. It just didn’t feel right to have Sam any distance away. He _needed_ Sam beside him at all times, so he could touch him, feel him, hear him breathing, listen to the steady rhythm of his heart.

Sam didn’t get out of bed much these days. Most of the time he lay in bed clinging to Dean, asking him in a small voice that broke something inside Dean, “What’s _wrong_ with me, Dean?”

And Dean would say, “Nothing, Sammy. You just need time. You wanna stay in bed all day, that’s okay. Cause I’m right here with you.”

The first time Sam had trouble sleeping Dean didn’t think much of it. He pulled Sam closer and shushed Sam from his nightmare, soon drifting back to sleep himself. He woke up the next morning to a corpse and an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the bed.

Dean’s screams probably woke the neighborhood. Certainly scared the shit out of Bobby, who came rolling up in his wheelchair in a panic. Took one look at Sam and got sick himself.

That was nothing compared to two nights later when Sam locked himself in the bathroom under the guise of taking a shower and took a blade to his wrists.

The next night he somehow managed to pick-pocket Dean’s gun.

They banned any and all weapons in the house after that.

Sam tried to explain between sobs that he _needed_ it, that it was the only way he could get any sleep. But Dean couldn’t take waking up next to a corpse or being covered in his baby brother’s blood _one more time_ or he would surely go insane himself. As it was he still woke up screaming almost every night, Sam’s bloody corpse dancing before him every time he closed his eyes, and he just had to wait to see if it was a dream or his reality that morning.

So every night Dean would lay next to Sam and sing softly until one of them fell asleep. It cut back on the nightmares, at least a little bit, they’d found. Sam liked to sleep with the bloody tee-shirt he refused to leave behind in the motel room; Dean’s old AC/DC one. It was like Sam’s morbid little security blanket and Dean couldn’t make him get rid of it, no matter how much it churned his stomach every time he saw it.

Secretly, Dean would stay awake as long as he possibly could just to watch Sam sleep and calm him down if a nightmare started. He never told Sam that. He also kept it a secret that sometimes… sometimes, when he looked at his brother, he still saw the bullet wound in Sam’s skull, bleeding all over the place, all over onto everything.

Sam didn’t need to know how irrevocably broken he was.

* * *

 

The snow piled on the ground, covering everything in its path. Trees, cars, grass, dead leaves, _people,_ all buried under a world of white. Sam liked the snow. It was somehow… pure.

“Hey Sam, whatcha lookin’ at?” Dean asked he strode into the room with nothing but a towel on, fresh out of the shower. He’d left the door open of course; all the locks in the house had been removed and Sam wasn’t allowed to shut the door all the way anymore. Dean followed the same rules in a “vow of solidarity.”

“The snow. It’s nice,” Sam murmured.

“Wait, is that… a lore book?”

“Hmm?” Sam looked down in his lap. “Oh, yeah, I was looking at it before the snow started.”

“You were feeling up to doing research? That’s great!” He sounded so hopeful and Sam bit his lip and nodded, afraid to disappoint him.

“Yeah, I mean, we gotta…” Sam swallowed a lump in his throat, “gotta put _him…_ back, right?”

He could see the hope growing in Dean’s eyes and it scared him. What if Dean started _expecting_ things from him? He’d only let Dean down, _again_.

They got ready for bed and crawled under the covers together. Sam cherished that moment, when they first tangled their limbs together for the night, because he _knew_ they were numbered, knew they wouldn’t be able to last. He’d find a way to make Dean leave him again.

He didn’t know what was different that night, but this time Dean leaned over and instead of merely letting their breaths mingle together in a dance, he slotted their lips together in a gentle kiss.

Sam kissed back desperately, trying not to think about how now he was going to inevitably lose _this, too?_ Instead he clung to Dean’s lips with his own like a lifeline.

* * *

 

_The place I used to know outside and in_   
_Has changed and yet, will only change again_   
_But normal's just a hiding place away_   
  
_Come on, come on, oblivion, I never want to lose you now_   
_It's not too late, you're not so far away_   
_It feels like fate and I can't afford to come back down_   
  
_But they relaxed, conviction rides again_   
_And only false security remains_   
_But normal's just a hiding place away_   
  
_Come on, come on, oblivion, I never want to lose you now_   
_It's not too late you're not so far away_   
_It feels like fate and I can't afford to come back down_   
_It feels like fate and I can't afford to come back down_   
_It's mine to take, so give me more and let me drown_   
_-"Come On, Oblivion" Finger Eleven_

**Author's Note:**

> Not a HAPPY ending, but they're together, so there's always hope. There's always hope, remember that :)  
> Pleeeeease leave a comment on your way out, they mean more to me than you know! Comments are love and life. Thanks for reading.


End file.
